


Bittersweet

by gonattsaga



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-09
Updated: 2011-05-09
Packaged: 2017-10-19 05:10:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/197257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gonattsaga/pseuds/gonattsaga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex tries to cope with a new situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bittersweet

**Author's Note:**

> Set somewhere between “Sleepless” and “Duane Barry” in S2. Written for a 100 situations challenge on Livejournal, prompt: #069 Bitter.

You see it in his eyes. As your gazes lock together in silent agreement and he catches sight of something in your eyes, something out of place that makes him do a double take, a wolfish emotion behind a sugar coated disguise, or wool coated more like. And that is what you see in his eyes. That momentary flicker of doubt which sparks in the grey depths staring back at you. And then it’s gone. Dismissed. Eyelids are lowered, with a flutter of lashes that remind you of an innocence that almost makes your chest clench, almost.

He drops his head down onto your shoulder. Your hearts knocks wildly against each other, like two manic gladiators thrashing in their separate cages, trying to reach passed the bars to do as much harm to each other as possible. You stare up at the ceiling and count the beats, count the breaths that repeatedly hits the skin covering your collarbone, count the Fucks which your internal voice keeps throwing up at top volume.

A sigh breaks through the relative, pregnant silence. Breaks through your monotone reverie of curses. You swallow a premature lump in your throat, clear it just to make sure, glance down, reaches up to tangle your fingers in the mop of tousled hair which sticks up to tickle the underside of your chin, even though it’s a gesture you’d normally consider to be too intimate, and you hum something which could be a moan, or a sigh to match that of his, or even a noise of affirmation.

“That was …” he says before breaking off in uncertainty and falling into a much unwelcome silence.

“Yeah”, you say all the same, because whatever he thinks this was, you agree with him, that’s part of the deal, get on his good list, gain his trust, earn your salary.

“Wrong”, he finishes after another moment of quiet.

“Yeah”, you say again and gently push him away so that you can get up and move away.

Your internal voice has given up on the Fuck mantra and is now yelling at you to “Get the fuck out of there!”. You’d like to tell it to shut the fuck up, and you’re going in a minute, keep your hat on. But you don’t, because you don’t talk to yourself or any inner voices that you might imagine, thank you very much. Fuck. Get out, right. You throw your legs over the side of the bed and reach for your trousers. Fucking brown. You hate brown, but you need to blend in with the suit wearing people. Fucking red tie and all.

Two arms encircle your waist and pull you back against a solid chest, warm and pulsating, hard and soft. Comforting. Fuck. You let your shoulders hunch, because damn it, you couldn’t care less about your posture at the moment. And you sigh.

“I didn’t mean it like that”, he murmurs against the side of your neck.

You can’t help but to shiver at the feel of his breath against your skin, his quivering lips against your pulse point when he speaks. You clear your throat again and turn your head to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of his face, or any part of him, over your shoulder. His embrace is gentle, yet determined, nearly possessive. Somehow it makes your chest clench tighter. And you have to swallow yet another lump, and another.

“I know”, you answer him, as lightly as you can manage. “It’s alright.”

“Then why are you getting dressed?” he asks you, as though you’d know, as though you could possibly think of a valid reason for putting your clothes back on when he’s holding you the way he is, and murmuring in that lustful tone of voice, touching his lips to the side of your fucking neck.

“Be-cause…” and silently you curse your voice for betraying you, “You’re right. This was… wrong. We shouldn’t have. We shouldn’t…”

His tongue sneaks out to touch your skin. You shudder. You hate yourself for admitting it, but damn you shudder. You can even feel that smile of his against you’re your shoulder. Cocky bastard.

“Yeah…” he agrees quietly, almost whispering.

“We still shouldn’t”, you clarify. “So I’m gonna go…”

“You wanna go?”

“It’s best…”

“Mmm”, he agrees and he sounds actually genuine. “But do you want to?”

“Mulder…” you say, you plead, you scold, you… you lose yourself.

You forget the point you were supposed to make. And you let your head fall backwards, and immediately he’s shifting, moving his own head out of the way, allowing you to rest yours on his shoulder.

Soon he’s trailing the fingertips of his right hand in feathery touches across your exposed throat. Is this what they mean by coming undone? You’re not sure, but as good as this feel, you don’t like it much. Too intimate. Too much. Too real. You have to get out. Now.

“Stay”, he says, simply, quietly, not really demanding but not asking either.

He makes it sound so easy, you think. Or perhaps you said it out loud, because you can definitely feel him smiling again. And you know he really believes it to be just as simple as that, as he makes it sound. You know that, working circumstances aside, he really thinks it is simple. Just like that. A whispered word, a feathery touch, a shy kiss and play of tongues, rolling a fix of sweetness between them.

And still there is a bitter taste in the back of your throat as you push the truth to the back of your head and surrender to his hesitant seduction.

End.

  


  



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